


An Angel's Hands are Made For Weaving

by FlygonRider



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale rides with the Mogols, Aziraphle with a beard, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/F, Gender not matching physical presentation, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), Historical, Kiev Rus, Mongol Empire, Other, Physical hurt/comfort, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), medieval setting, reverse au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24466054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlygonRider/pseuds/FlygonRider
Summary: The gates of the city had fallen three hours prior, and Crowley was running out of places to hide.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9
Collections: Adversarial Anniversary Celebration





	An Angel's Hands are Made For Weaving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassieoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/gifts).



Crowley swore as she ducked into an alleyway and hid behind the rubble of a collapsed wall. A column of soldiers thundered past in the street, whooping and hollering.

The gates of the city had fallen three hours prior, and Crowley was running out of places to hide.

Oh sure, if she changed into her snake form there were plenty of places to curl up in, but the memory of an errant hoof and Gabriel’s disappointed face was still too fresh to consider that.

“Fucking Gabriel,” she muttered under her breath, counting to fifteen before darting across the street and ducking into a looted brewster’s storefront. “‘ _Go to Kiev,’_ he said. _‘We need more worship because we’re fucking shitheels who don’t have an original idea. There’s no chance of you **dying**.’_”

She quickly grabbed a tipple—ale that had been only half-spilled and sipped at it—trying to figure out a plan. The western gate lay six blocks away, with hundreds of soldiers between it and Crowley. Downing the rest of the ale for courage, Crowley left the safety of the building and hurried west. She hid in piles of rubble and behind ruined walls, listening for the sound of fighting.

Eventually, the remains of the western gate appeared in Crowley’s sight. There was a wide avenue separating the gate from the first of the buildings, almost too great a distance for her to cross safely.

But she would have to either cross the avenue and risk possible discorporation, or stay and face certain discorporation when the city became overrun.

In the distance, Crowley could hear a rank of calvalry quickly growing closer. Taking her chance, she leapt onto the street and sprinted for the gate. 

She felt the rumble of swiftly approaching hooves thundering down the street towards her, and put on a burst of speed.

Just as Crowley was about to reach the gate, she felt herself lifted off the ground and slammed facedown into a saddle, knocking the breath out of her. She tried to take a deep breath, just to see if she could, and her chest spasmed painfully.

“Do not be afraid,” she heard the rider above her murmur, in her own language and a familiar voice. She twists, trying to get a glimpse of the rider's face, and catches a pair of gray eyes she knows all too well.

Crowley’s soul opened up and exposed itself automatically, and she felt Aziraphle’s soul open up to meet hers—bright and warm as drunken laughter.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Crowley nearly had to shout to be heard over the drumming of hooves. Aziraphle grabbed a handful of her hair, shoving her face against the horse’s neck. It smelled like sweat and blood and Crowley gagged on it.

“Don’t ask. I’ll tell you later.”

It felt like it took hours for the cobblestones to pass to bare dirt. Crowley nearly became sick watching the motion. Even without looking up, she could hear the flames consume the last of Kiev. A few wayward screams were quickly silenced as the last of the army retreated to celebrate their victory.

When they finally reached the camp, Aziraphle slowed from a gallop to a trot, and gently pulled on the reins to stop the horse in front of a tent. Crowley fell from the saddle, completely boneless and shaking as the adrenaline began wearing off.

Just as Aziraphle dismounted, Crowley managed to get her legs underneath her and tried to sprint away. She only made it a few feet before Aziraphle grabbed a lock of her hair—and _hell below_ , Crowley forgot how badly that hurt—and threw her to the ground.

Aziraphle pulled her to her feet, shouting something in Mongolian that Crowley couldn’t understand. Probably more to put on a show for the other soldiers surrounding them than to actually intimidate her.

Aziraphle dragged Crowley into the tent and immediately dropped his hand from her hair. He pulled a club from his belt, as thick as Crowley’s wrist, and toed the blankets into a pile, still growling and shouting, before beating them into submission.

It took Crowley a long moment to realize what was happening. _‘Aziraphle wants them to think I’m being punished.’_ She felt a little grateful as she watched Aziraphle beat the blankets a few more times before dropping the stick as if it were on fire.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphle came back and took Crowley’s hands gently, voice low enough that nobody outside would be able to hear their conversation.

“I’ll be fine,” Crowley sighed. Now that her life wasn’t in danger, she could actually get a chance to look at Aziraphle’s new corporation. She reached out to rub Aziraphle’s new beard, feeling the scratchy whiskers against her soft palms. “What are you going by now?”

“Still she and her,” Aziraphle shrugs. “At least for you.”

“Just me?” Crowley cocked an eyebrow. That drew a smile out of Aziraphle, a soft thing that Crowley had only ever seen directed at her.

“Yes, just you.” Aziraphle tugged her over to the tentpole. “Now I’m very sorry about this, but I’m gonna have to leave you here while I take care of my horse. And since I have to keep you from escaping…” She pulled out a length of soft rope, holding it between them. Crowley couldn’t sense any sort of curse or bond on it that might keep her from escaping, if she really tried. And there were plenty of worse things in the world then being tied up by Aziraphle. “Go ahead.” Crowley sat down, putting her back against the pole and letting Aziraphle pull her arms behind her.

“How does that feel?” Aziraphle asked her a few minutes later. Crowley tested the cord. 

“Fine. I could fall asleep like this.”

Aziraphle chuckled under her breath. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said softly, before leaving. Crowley tucked her legs underneath her, and settled in to wait.

By the time Aziraphle returned, the light coming through the tent walls had turned a warm gold. Her armor was gone, and she seemed almost lighter without it.

“Are you still feeling okay?” Aziraphle untied Crowley quickly, helped her to her feet. Crowley swayed, dizzy from hunger and blood loss. Aziraphle frowned, taking her over to the cot. “Sit down.” She pulled out a wineskin and tipped it against Crowley’s mouth. Crowley took several long drinks of watery mare’s milk before Aziraphle took the wineskin away.

"What did you call me? Outside, earlier.”

Aziraphle went a little bit pink along the edge of her ears. “I called you a stupid cockwhore. For trying to run away.”

Crowley made a face like she was trying not to laugh, and only half successful. "Really? Cockwhore? Do they not teach you better swears in Hell?"

"I panicked, okay? I had to make it look convincing, otherwise you would have been killed.” She pulled out a small wooden box from under the cot and set it between them. “I’ve been making you less noticeable, to humans anyway. Just enough that they won’t care that you’re here.” 

Crowley felt oddly touched by the gesture. "You didn't have to do that for me. Just get sent back up to Head Office and then have to wait another decade or two for a new body."

"Yes, but I would have gotten lonely. And after your last death, well, I figured I should make it up to you."

Crowley shrugs. "It'd be a lot easier to spin this time. _Getting run through by the Adversary_ sounds a whole lot better than _crushed under an ass's hoof_."

Aziraphle sighed, running her fingers around a cut on Crowley’s arm. “I’m sorry for being rough with you.” She quickly sanitized the wound, before grabbing another bandage and winding it around her arm. “It’s no biggie, Aziraphle.” Crowley waved away her concern. Aziraphle gave her a strange look, similar to the one she had on the wall of Eden when Crowley had been talking about lead balloons. “Don’t worry about it.” “Still.” Aziraphle tied the end of the bandage off, leaving her fingers a moment longer than was proper before pulling away.

“What are you doing here anyway? I thought your thing was mischief. Not…” not this war, not all this killing and pillaging and leaving cities as nothing but piles of ash.

“Hell sent me. I got discorporated, oh, forty or so years ago, and they sent me back to help bring Ghengis Khan’s empire to fruition. Didn’t have the heart to tell them that they’re a few years out of date. Hell’s always been a little bit slow when it comes to earthly matters.”

Crowley snorted fondly, taking a chance to lean into Aziraphle’s touch. “Heaven's not much better. Sometimes I think they believe I’m still stuck in Wessex, with they way they talk of ‘spreading the Word’ and all that.”

Without warning, she let out a wide yawn, suddenly feeling exhausted. She wanted to sleep, desperately, to forget the flames and blood and screams of a dying city, even if only for a few hours. Aziraphle made a soft cooing noise, and brushed some dirty, ash-covered hair away from her face. “Poor thing, you must be drained.” Aziraphle gently laid Crowley down on the cot, pulling the thin blanket up to her shoulders. She felt the faint thrum of a ward being placed; no humans would dare enter as long as it was active. “Go to sleep. We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.” Crowley feels Aziraphle settle next to her and pet her hair, quietly humming a song that she recognized as the last remnants of a bawdy tavern song from Rome, before the darkness dragged her under.


End file.
